Reintroduction

By Duncan Brown

If you’re Robert Corrigan, you awake daily to a world we created. The sun no longer shines over London.

Unbroken clouds seep constant drizzle, turning buildings green with algae. Your mother made great sacrifices to elevate you. She taught you to be as opportunistic as the cancer that threatens to kill her. You, like most Workers, live with the threat of being demoted to non-Worker, or simply a Non. If your activity is judged subversive, you may be left without benefits or support, categorised as a Transient or worse still become one of the many disappeared.

The prospect of managing a programme like Project Egret is an opportunity you dare not turn down. You’ll face this challenge regardless of DRT’s apparent or ulterior motives. The one percent will sacrifice anything to maintain what they have and nothing you ever think or do is outside the realm of their influence. Immortality may be no more than a corporate dream but if you’re not careful you’ll awake to an even worse nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Brown
• Release date: Aug 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739929718

Book preview

1

The anchorman smirked as he dismissed Marjorie Lemming’s reported sighting of a patch of blue sky. It had been twenty-seven years since the sun last appeared over London. The guest meteorologist agreed the claim was absurd. She was after all a Non-Worker, or simply a Non. Besides, Marjorie may well have had a drink or, worse, slapped on a sanctioned hit of heroin, before appearing via halo-screen on the show to make her ridiculous claim.

Ever since the Automation Revolution, fewer and fewer people had jobs or contributed to the system. The gradual classification and eventual segregation of people into Workers, Non-Workers and the Unregistered never received official approval. It was an organic process, and successive administrations across the globe adopted the terms and legislated accordingly.

Robert Corrigan was watching from his favourite armchair in his old ground-floor flat, a residence situated in a part of town avoided by people of value. He flicked his wristpad and the halo-screen dissolved, and his gaze naturally drifted across to the window and out onto the street. The suffused sunlight was constant, whether it was daybreak, midday, or dusk. Time and the sun had become less well acquainted with one another once the doldrums had settled in.

He had lived alone for longer than he cared to remember and, if called upon to do so, would have struggled to pinpoint when he first realised he enjoyed solitude. No singular moment sparked an epiphany; and it was not a construct or part of a wider strategy, it was a simple recognition of facts.

His flat bore its abject neglect well enough. The walls had been painted French-grey years before, a colour scheme chosen with the help of a virtual salesman. He liked the front room with its large windows. The room had a fireplace, and he’d spoken with the neighbour upstairs, who’d agreed to have the chimney cleared. She was a dotty old thing who had once been an Olympic gymnast. She’d returned from Beijing with a bronze medal and the locals had taken to calling her Miss Champion. The name had stuck. Sixty years later she struggled to negotiate the stairs or remember to lock her door.

An old grandfather clock marked each second with the resonance of age. The sound established a connection with an irretrievable past; a time Corrigan had read about in books and found a comforting distraction. The near-constant drizzle turned less well-maintained brick buildings green with lichen and moss. Corrigan could sense the damp as it crept closer. To keep it at bay, he periodically sent B4, his Mecha-Butler, up to Miss Champion’s flat to treat her walls and ceilings. B4’s reports included a schedule for the continued maintenance of their home and those belonging to Corrigan’s immediate neighbours. It was not always easy for the little droid to organise the necessary activities as the neighbourhood was populated by Nons, political outcasts, or people who suffered from an aversion to androids. Corrigan acted as arbiter when required.

He scanned his bookshelves in search of distraction, skimming titles by Dostoyevsky, Kafka, Searle, Chomsky, Dickens and Dawkins, but nothing quite hit the spot. He’d read these authors many times over when he was younger. His mother had friends she referred to as her bohemian butterflies, who’d read the same authors, and it was these bohemians who had recommended them to him. That was back in the day before the sun became fully shrouded and democracy faded, leaving a subtle mimic to reign over a categorised and controlled population. She thought it disadvantageous for him to associate with a crowd she had needed to distance herself from, however. Even owning titles such as these and stacking them on bookcases could compromise him. She pressed him to focus on more modern texts instead; books that would help him navigate the world of business, books recommended for program managers and anyone involved in IT or process transformation. The bone-dry texts bored him. He preferred something that engaged his mind, transported him to less hopeless times. The archaic writers, therefore, had been companions, even comrades, in a world where he remained an intruder: Nons who made their way up were slyly referred to as Floaters among the more established Worker class.

Always a chance they might flush you, his mother reminded him incessantly. "If they think you’re a commie and a homo, you can kiss your Worker status goodbye. They don’t care who you do it with, of course, no, they’re not religious or judgemental like that, but one wink to the idea of equality and down you go."

His wristpad pinged and he tapped the glass. A halo-screen message appeared: Interview at DRT.

Dennett and Reece Technology. What on earth would they want with me? he thought.

He clicked on the message and allowed the program to identify the sender and read the email with an approximation of her voice:

"Hello Robert

I received a job spec this morning. You were the first candidate I thought of. Please read it and let me know if you’re interested. There’s nothing about this online, so no point looking.

Program Manager Project Egret

The program is comprised of three projects, each with its own departmental lead. DRT is defining the cutting edge of Whole Brain Emulation (WBE), Artificial Intelligence (AI) and Genetic Engineering (GE). Each project spearheads one of these areas of research.

The successful candidate will have experience running multiple, complex projects simultaneously and be alert to potential synergies that might be nurtured and exploited. We are seeking the right personality to provide structure and order without undermining ingenuity or the flexibility that drives it, a natural leader to manage and support our team, someone with the vision to see beyond the probable and recognise the possible.

As I said, Robert, it made me think of you. I know you like a challenge. Sorry it’s so vague.

Please get back to me ASAP. They’re pressing for CVs.

Kind regards

Jill Waterstone"

The way DRT pressed keynotes made him groan. He scowled and said, Type: Hi Jill. Please pass my CV to the client for review. You should have the latest version. I’m available any day next week. Kind regards, Robert. Then, Send.

He had been out of work for nearly six weeks. Much longer and he would need to start searching, otherwise his status could drop back down to Non – and his mother would never forgive him. The unsavoury term Non was one he remembered from a childhood spent with a mother whose employment enabled connections with men in senior positions. These connections came with authority and influence, the kind needed to escape a place like Haringey. Hattie Corrigan had hauled her son up the ladder from Non to Worker through sheer exertion of will, and sliding back down would not do.

He wandered down to the split-level kitchen, instructing his coffee machine to make a macchiato. The appliance acknowledged the request with a courteous, pre-scripted salutation, and whirred, the water gurgling as the coffee was prepared. He was about to take it through to the front room when his wristpad pinged again:

"Hey Robert

I sent your CV over and they’ve booked you in for 3pm on Friday the 17th. If that doesn’t work, please let me know and I’ll rearrange.

All I can say is someone’s keen.

Kind regards and good luck.

Jill"

Corrigan took a sip of coffee and wandered back to the front room, back to his armchair and the large window. A family stood on the pavement on the opposite side of Harvey Road; a lean father, an exhausted mother, and two small children. He was a black man in his early forties, and she had ginger hair, freckles and a distended abdomen. She might have been pregnant or starving. The father’s sharp beard made his features severe. His eyes were set back in their sockets, and when he stepped into the shadow of a doorway they seemed to vanish altogether. The woman appeared dazed for a moment, then she gathered the children about her knees. The little boy clung to her leg, while his sister toyed with her fingers.

What the family was doing became evident when two older boys arrived dragging a cart. The contraption contained some chairs, an old-fashioned halo-screen projector, and an assortment of open bin bags stuffed with clothes. A pillow fell out onto the street and the woman stooped to retrieve it, but her condition made it impossible. Her daughter grabbed the pillow, and the mother’s eyes flashed with indignation.

One of the older boys was more attractive than the others. His skin had a healthy colour and he was better dressed. He avoided eye contact with the members of his family, as if not acknowledging them might make them disappear. Corrigan assessed the youth as a good-looking mixed-race boy.

Corrigan reclined in his armchair and placed his feet on the ottoman. He took another sip of coffee, and tapped his wristpad, opening up the previous screen. Jill’s email conveyed nothing more than information. Her personable façade had always blocked any read of the woman herself.

He saw something move, placed his mug on the coffee table and leant forward. The father had shifted his position to stare into the deserted street. He turned to the left, then to the right, before rolling up a sleeve and affixing a patch to the crook of his arm. Mass-produced and affordable, the new form of heroin pad was called Belushi Grey, the latest drug of choice among Nons. News reports often reminded users the drug could trigger internal haemorrhaging and instant kidney failure, but Corrigan figured the manufacturers and marketers only wanted to ensure no one could file a complaint. After all, it was the only product whose customer base was more reliable than the world’s military market.

The father craned his head back, staggered and slumped against the doorframe. In the dim light he appeared otherworldly, a vacated shell left behind while the real occupant ventured elsewhere.

A brown cat leapt up onto the window ledge and Corrigan jumped. The animal’s eyes bore down on him with a face worn from hardship and cruelty. He gazed at the cat, and his heart gradually slowed. He looked past the ragged face to the doorway on the other side of Harvey Road. The street was deserted. Only the cat remained, like a windowsill sentinel.

2

Miss Champion woke Corrigan with her routine morning shuffle. He imagined her scuffing dry floorboards in threadbare slippers, white hair on end and her features fixed in an expression of bemusement. Her mouth hung open awaiting teeth she rarely collected from sideboards, armrests, or the edge of the bathroom sink. She was lost, adrift inside herself, and the world was a foreign shore upon which she found herself washed each morning.

B4 appeared in the room, eager if somewhat unsteady on its roller; its large doe-like eyes more irritating than ever.

I thought I’d powered you down, Corrigan huffed.

The droid was approximately four feet tall. It coasted on a ball capable of negotiating stairs, had a pair of flexible arms, and a deep officious voice. It came with an automatic reboot system, one Corrigan would have to disengage if he wanted the droid powered down indefinitely. Although he had chosen it from a range of variants, he’d never warmed to it.

You hibernated me, B4 said.

Corrigan instructed it to prepare tea and toast, and the droid sped off towards the kitchen. He called after it, I’ll have breakfast in the front room!

He sat up, swivelled and placed his feet in his slippers. The droid struggled to remember its core duties, those Corrigan had programmed with the young technician who’d delivered the device. Corrigan recalled the quality of the young man’s skin; how smooth and perfect it was. He’d found it difficult to focus on the matter at hand, and bungled the setup somehow.

He threw on his bathrobe and paced through the kitchen to the front room. The cat must have remained on the window ledge all night. Its eyes were unflinching and far too big for its emaciated head.

Corrigan sat in his armchair, but then returned to the kitchen to take his breakfast from the forgetful droid, and B4 followed him with a whir to the front room. He instructed the droid to clean.

And don’t forget the flagstones in the garden, he snapped. I nearly slipped on some algae yesterday.

He placed the toast on the window ledge. The cat looked down at the melting butter and its tongue poked out. Corrigan called B4 back and instructed it to put some genetically engineered tuna in a bowl and bring it to him. He made his way to the kitchen and collected the tuna from the droid. B4 lingered, so Corrigan dismissed it and went out into the communal hall and unlocked the main door.

The cat saw him and recoiled. He raised the manufactured tuna, so the defeated animal could smell it. For a moment the cat remained wary, ready to creep away. Then hunger overwhelmed trepidation and it dropped to the ground.

Corrigan placed the bowl on the floor, just inside the hall, and waited for the animal to venture in. Once the cat was fully engaged with its breakfast, he closed the main door and went back inside to eat his own. He left the front door open.

Corrigan ate some toast, drank his tea, and instructed B4 to make another cup.

The cat slinked into the room, stared at him and uttered a pitiful meow.

Corrigan placed his cup of tea on the window ledge and went down on all fours in front of the cat.

I know just how you feel, he said.

He placed his hand over the cat’s head, and it nudged him. He gently stroked the animal, which, no surprise, was ribbed with raised scars. Its fur was filthy; he would have to wash it. He called to B4 and instructed the droid to order cat food and a litter box. The droid acknowledged the request and Corrigan listened to it making computations and connections.

His wristpad pinged. It was an incoming call from his mother, which he elected not to answer, but clicked open his halo-screen and watched as his mother’s message was typed out: Answering a call from a dying woman might be an effort, but, when it’s your mum, I figure you owe me. Give me a call. They’ve put me in bloody Intensive care and I’m anything but happy about it. Love you.

He chuckled.

Perhaps she really is going to die this time. Hypochondria’s such a long, drawn-out but, I suppose, ultimately fatal condition.

Lazarus – for the name seemed to suit – watched Corrigan read the message and then wound himself figure-eight around his legs.

He took the animal through to the bathroom and placed it in the tub. You’re not going to like this, he said, but you have to have a bath, and wet it down with warm water. And I have to visit my mother, he added. So, we’re even.

Corrigan applied shampoo three times before Lazarus looked clean. The cat had limited energy and only summoned enough to manage a faint protest, beseeching his rescuer to stop with a series of fading meows. But he purred when wrapped in a towel. B4 was summoned and acted as a hairdryer – blowing hot air onto the animal via a manipulable hose – and the job was finished. Lazarus was transformed. His fluffed-up fur added several pounds to him. He followed Corrigan through to the bedroom, jumped up onto the unmade bed, and made himself comfortable.

The ache in his chest surprised Corrigan, and he marvelled at the possibility of loving an animal he had spent less than an hour with.

He tapped his wristpad and said, Call Mother.

There could hardly have been a single buzz before Hattie Corrigan answered. She spoke without enthusiasm but not without vehemence. Her tirade included complaints about doctors, nurses, family and friends. He heard words, but his attention did not extend to absorbing whole sentences. The words collected in a list in the library of his mind, and he placed them, one by one, on the shelf:

Incompetence

Hurtful

Shameless

Humiliating

Pain

"Are you listening to me?" she snapped.

Of course, Corrigan said, but he went on stroking and nuzzling Lazarus, and her vitriol remained as ineffectual as Marjorie Lemming’s sun. When she had depleted her reserves, he assured her of his love and ended the call.

He raised Lazarus in his arms and said into the ragged, clean face, That wasn’t so bad now, was it?

3

The following day was much the same as the previous one from a meteorological standpoint. Miss Champion had roused him with her mindless shuffling, and B4 had hovered before him. Corrigan instructed it to prepare porridge and tea and dismissed it.

Lazarus stretched out a paw towards his face. Corrigan wondered how he’d ever made it through a day without him. The empathy in the cat’s eyes was more substantive than any of his human relationships. Those had been a string of failures and disappointments which were not worth revisiting. These days a quick tug to holographic porn was preferable to dating.

He got out of bed, retrieved his tea and porridge from B4 and instructed it to run him a bath. When he had lowered himself into the hot water, he called out and asked it to lay out his grey suit from Mailer’s. The bath was too comforting to leave. He kept topping up the hot water and lingered for as much as an hour before he finally climbed out and dried and got dressed.

Lazarus appeared to sense Corrigan’s imminent departure and watched him with a blend of curiosity and agitation.

I often worry about the mouse in me, Corrigan mused. He leant down and stroked Lazarus’s head. Let me amend that, he said as he stood up and straightened his tie in the mirror. "I often worry that I’m inside the mouse which masquerades as me. I sit inside a furry suit watching the little vermin raising my paws, perfectly aware that I’ll be overlooked. The best I can manage is a stray crumb and that, I assure you, is nibbled without hesitation or delay. I squeak my complaints down near the ground where my snout is usually positioned, sniffing out low-level opportunities for miniscule gains."

He enacted a scene of sniffing and searching, for the cat’s benefit.

Subsistence is the lot of us lesser rodents, and I’m certainly not vicious enough to be a rat or cute enough to lift my cottontail. He raised his backside in the air and frowned. I’ve been struggling with my zipper, but it’s around the back and I can’t reach the damn thing. Every time I give it a go, it rides up my nape. One day my fingers are going to catch hold of it. I beg the Powers That Be to allow this moment to coincide with an uncharacteristic flash of bravery, for, when I tear it off, I’ll stand naked before the world screaming, ‘I’m a man, a man!’ He patted Lazarus again. And that’s quite a daunting prospect for a mouse.

He had seen a mouse at the underground station earlier in the week. It writhed on its sides, its legs running like those of a dreaming dog. He considered scooping it up and taking it home in his bag. It had either been injured or poisoned, and he might have given it comfort as it died from its injuries, or he may even have saved it. Instead, he stepped around it, his back brushing the wall so he remained as far away from the suffering rodent as possible.

B4 spun into the room and asked whether Corrigan would like a taxi. Corrigan considered his options and instructed the droid to place an order with Bluebird Taxis. B4 was about to leave when he asked what could be done about the droid’s voice. B4 confirmed it could be modified as required. Corrigan wondered what would suit it better. Could the droid use a younger voice? The droid responded in a child’s voice. It was an unsatisfactory, middle-class tone. He asked the droid to adopt a more working-class voice, but it was unable to comprehend the request. Corrigan mimicked the sound of his mother’s voice, and the droid managed to echo the pattern. The result was sweet, and Corrigan asked B4 to make it melancholy. B4’s eyes widened, and the droid asked what level of melancholia it should apply. Corrigan considered it for a moment, requested a level 3, which the droid demonstrated. He was satisfied with the result and instructed B4 to polish his shoes.

Yes, sir, the droid said and moved off to comply.

Corrigan frowned and instructed the droid to adopt informality mode.

Yes, Robert.

Half an hour later Corrigan was at the door and B4 was deployed to keep Lazarus from escaping. He leant down into the hover-cab and assessed the driver, a man in his mid-thirties in a much-worn brown leather jacket. The cabbie talked at a slow,